Sojourn
by Laimielle
Summary: He's reminding me of when I had simple dreams, before I was caught in an obsessive, ongoing string of thought about Aragorn and his fleeting perfection. Slash warning.


_A/N: Just a short Aragorn/Legolas ficlet. Not much plotline. Sorry for any grammatical errors. I'm not sure about any of this because I just got into the trilogy. I'm so cool._

_'Hungry eyes...I feel the magic between your thighs~'_

ಠ_ಠ

_Disclaimer: Pretty much everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I've just borrowed his characters without asking because he's a bit dead at the moment._

_Reviews are very appreciated._

* * *

I'm trying to get my fingers to relearn how to do this. It isn't working, and I'm starting to think it might be possible that some outside force is conspiring against me. This is _ridiculous_, I know. But I can't focus on anything but the compelling presence of Aragorn behind me.

_What have I done?_

I know what's there, even without looking.

_What have we done?_

...In the House of Elrond, in a small moment we've stolen that was never really meant to be ours.

Something—maybe that conspiring force—is urging me to give up and lay back down, abandon this rigid position I'm in, sitting half-clothed and still _debauched_ at the edge of the bed. Maybe Aragorn wouldn't mind.

My breath hitches as I hear the rustling of sheets behind me. And I wait, clumsy fingers no longer fumbling with the laces on my rumpled tunic. Just still. My whole body is still.

He whispers my name beckoningly at the nape of my neck as I melt into the bare arms circling my waist. And then all the questions my brain is firing at me have been silenced, at least for now.

Patient hands are guiding my own, those same fingers that had undone those very laces while I had watched, while my skin was tingling and yearning for anything from those hands. Those fingers. Anything. I'd take it.

"_Ah..._" I breathe when a soft, parting kiss is pressed to my neck. It isn't suggestive, or desperate, or promising of anything; it just _is_, and I know I'm not expected to reciprocate because there is nothing Aragorn has ever done that made me feel obligated. So when I stop his fingers in a refusal to redress, it isn't because I feel indebted to him for anything.

I want to stay.

I feel him smiling against my skin. I tremble a little and shift into his embrace, not ready to join the waking of Rivendell just yet.

Everything is starting to bleed away except for the light kisses trailing up my jaw and my own name being whispered in the most undisguised tone of relief I have ever heard him use.

My skin is warming under his touches. I can't help wondering how long this will last. But I figure it doesn't matter right now because the seconds are turning into minutes, and everything is happening at a pace I can keep up with.

Aragorn understands that, I know. And that's why this can happen. That's why it has happened.

I fall back on the sheets, calmly anticipating. He continues to unravel my composure, just the way I like. This is how we have come to know each other.

He speaks suddenly. His choked voice is felt more than heard against my throat.

"What does it feel like, to you?"

I sigh, and it seems to take something out of me. He's making me nervous. I'm sure he can hear my heart fluttering with how close we are, how intimate I've made myself with this.

"I mean, just knowing that..."

_That what? That this could end? That it will? That tomorrow's council will mark and remember that this cannot possibly be everything forever?_

I'm keeping a conscious effort to stay relaxed against his calloused hands, and I think he notices, because his hold on my bare hip tightens. His breathing is getting erratic. He needs an answer. I'm not sure I have one.

"I should hope that you know by now." I answer instead, light and slightly tired. _You're living this with me right now, too, after all._

His hand falls from my skin, and it's only then that I become aware of how he has been touching me; how fleeting some caresses are, and others lingering. And how sometimes, it's almost hard to tell the difference.

He's drawing away some inches. There's somehow a different feel to his skin right now. A thrill surges through me when I meet his eyes, intent and fascinated on mine.

"I don't think I do, Legolas." he murmurs, gently enough to quell any of my concern. And genuine enough to bring it back.

I wonder what he means. Something is different about Aragorn tonight, and I'm not sure if it's for the better yet or not. But I feel different, too. Somehow desperately uncomfortable in my own skin, and I think that's why I crave so much of his.

He's reminding me of when I had simple dreams, before I was caught in an obsessive, ongoing string of thought about Aragorn and his fleeting perfection. He was like a lonely melody that lilted and bloomed with a sound of tomorrow every now and then, and that's why I can't pull away. It's why I don't want to pull away.

"It's not something I wish to think about," I finally answer quietly to his unwavering gaze. "There's so much we have right now, and the ending is just...beside the point."

Something flashes behind his eyes and it gives me a start, but I can't identify it before his shuddering breath is mingling with mine, and then he is pressing against me again. My skin remembers, warming and relaxing under his touch. He's pressing his dry lips to my jaw. I'm not sure what happened to inspire him like this, but I refuse to question it just yet and instead embrace the relief pressing into my bones.

"I would like to hear that again," he whispers almost soundlessly, lips gliding toward mine. I shiver, and my eyes fall shut.

"Hear it again?" I ask, smiling very slightly through my breathlessness. "Do you not believe me?"

"I do. I would just..." He suddenly hesitates. "I would like to hear it again."

And I would be happy to oblige, but he doesn't seem to be ready to allow me to. He's doing it again, kissing me, urging me to respond under the gentle pressure of his lips. I've come to the point where I nearly do that on impulse. His mouth is very yielding to mine, which is a little strange, since he's usually so emboldened. I don't mind that, or this. I'm getting what I need either way. He doesn't feel stolen, like I dreaded he would. And I realize it's not just my perception; it's how strongly, how deeply and impassioned he is in investing himself in this. It triggers a feeling identical to that within me.

It spurs me, and I'm pushing forward against him in a sudden rush of fervor that leaves both he and I gasping when we can snatch small breaths of air. My mouth parts against his when I feel his hand drifting up my chest. He's curious, despite the fact that he has felt me here before. My head is swimming, and he's unrelentingly coaxing more reactions from me.

Every pleading sigh, every satisfied groan is answered with more. His half-lidded eyes are on me, hazed with yearning and everything of this moment. I have to keep from pushing him further than what permits when he touches me like this; when one hand is palming my inner thigh and the other is groping for skin on my chest, and I can't think of anything except for the heat of his body arching against mine.

Near-silent whispers and quiet, breathless words of encouragement don't seem to be quite enough as of late. I know what it is. I know it's his way of hurrying things along, trying to fit a lifetime of this in the little time we have left.

I'm beginning to worry, too. The real possibility that all of this business with Sauron and his insatiable thrist for power could extinguish this before it has a chance to really begin grips my chest with anger and grief. This all feels so misplaced in his arms, and I'm ashamed that I've allowed myself to take this piece of time for granted.

Aragorn stills. He says nothing; no words of haphazard optimism, or even anything to reignite what I've just regretfully destroyed.

I'm sorry. I can't seem to keep my mind from running off like this.

I murmur his name without even meaning to. He seems to relax slightly at the sound, so I say it again, lightly resting my hands on his biceps. I'm beginning to kiss his shoulder with slight reverence, mouth tracing his warm, willing skin with all I'm feeling.

His breathing is becoming easier. More even. No need to think of anything else right now. This feels as it should be. It's the only thing that does.

I meet his eyes and try to be as close as I feel.

* * *

Arwen is becoming a distant dream to both of us. She's part of some other world, the only world we knew of before being thrust into this one.

She could wait forever, he could never find it in himself to return to her, and I could suffer all it took to absolve myself, and none of it would change anything. Aragorn could give her his hand, but never his heart. And there is really no other way of simplifying it further.

* * *

"I thought I heard something." he says quietly toward the oppressive black sky, as if the answer is waiting to be discovered somewhere in the stars. What a magical notion.

"What did you hear?"

A part of me thinks maybe there's something I missed, something before the moment my senses fed me the sound of Aragorn stirring. Something before he approached me perched on this rock and made the spot beside my position his; something before I stopped thinking for a breathless second to listen and watch for him.

"I...can't be sure. I felt startled out of sleep, and I thought maybe someone..."

There's a sound of an inquiry in his tone, a little beside the peculiarly hesitant way he's speaking.

"I didn't hear anything, Aragorn. We're safe."

I cast a sidelong glance at him and see him already looking unwaveringly at me. It's confusing, and I fight to keep my expression placid. Why isn't he scanning the area? I would just assume...naturally, really, that he would be standing alert and ready for the end of the world to come. He has been increasingly skittish lately, sleep regularly being interrupted by the smallest sounds sometimes only from his own mind, eyes wide and face set in panic at the slightest sign of danger. Not that I blame him. Things will be coming to a close soon. We don't know who fate will choose to sacrifice. It has me on edge, as well. I haven't spoken of it in fear of magnifying the feeling of hopelessness our situation is gaining. I've only just realized that Aragorn is probably experiencing the same sense of doubt I am, and why shouldn't he? He has so much to lose. Middle-earth has so much to lose.

We're on the precipice of the end of this war, it feels like. I almost shudder to think that this could all be in vain. I very much hate the fact that there is nothing I can do to change this. It takes something largely significant to unnerve Aragorn, and this is it. I feel completely out of my element here.

I wish to relieve him of the burden he has done nothing to deserve. He is not Isildur, not by any stretch of the imagination. Why does he feel he has inherited his sin? Not even sin, rather, in my mind. Just a moment of weakness, of humanity...

"You should try to get some more sleep." I suggest slowly, having virtually no trouble mapping out his face, even in this dimness. I'm fascinated by the way his gaze softens in light of my sincere words. It feels like there's an underlying meaning beginning to form in the budding conversation. There's a sudden selfish desire within me to urge him to stay, so that I can keep his company while I remain here and watch.

Selfishness. An awful flaw; a human flaw. And I am so regretfully stricken with it.

"I don't believe I can." he speaks, gentler than anyone could ever think him capable of by just looking at him.

I won't push the matter. I can relate to what he's saying. There is little worse than waking with a start in the middle of the night, and not knowing who you are for a few terrifying moments. I know that's why he can't get back to sleep. It's like being haunted for the remaining hours of the night, and there's nothing he can do to forget about the invisible entity he's being stalked by. I know this. I know him.

Aragorn has never looked quite as mortal as he does now. I think maybe it's the frown he's trying to fight, or the way he's grasping my upper arm cautiously with a soft look in his tired eyes that doesn't look at all like him. It's frightening, how resolute he looks to me now.

I'm regarding his touch carefully. I'm afraid to react at all, afraid to misconstrue his actions. I never once thought he would try to initiate anything with me after setting out on this journey. Why hadn't I considered it? Why hadn't I thought of any of this? Was I too afraid to imagine that it couldn't exist outside of Rivendell?

It's so frustratingly difficult to read him right now. I don't want to ask the questions pushing behind my lips. This second is so breakable. I don't...I don't want to try anything.

I release a sharp breath as his hand darts to my neck without warning. My composure is being threatened, but I'm not afraid. I've never been afraid of him; I never could be. I do trust him. He has given me reason to.

There's something strangely soothing about the way he's tracing the area around my pulse. It feels almost dangerously personal. Maybe that's why I'm enjoying it, but I can't be sure. He has never touched me here before.

I can hear my name on his lips as my eyes flutter closed, and I remember how I've been told men are brutish. Neanderthals. The notion almost seems like a joke now. Aragorn is...the epitome of pure right now. Any previous selfish intentions are absent, as they've always been from him. I think it's why I can so easily drift into the haven of comfort he's coaxing me into.

I can feel his breath against my jaw. My lips are parting, very slightly...for words, or something else, I don't know. I'm unconcerned with how he got so close before I could notice. It seems unimportant right now.

"I'm..._sure_ I heard..." he begins breathlessly against my skin. I shiver slightly, fighting to maintain my sitting position.

"You didn't," I argue weakly.

I feel his lips part again to speak, but he says nothing. I focus on calming myself for the moment, which I honestly don't believe I've ever had to do.

"I get...so tired sometimes." I hear myself whisper. The voice isn't mine, and I wonder where it came from.

"Tired of what?" is his breathy reply. And I know he knows what tired I speak of; he knows and understands most of what I'm saying.

"Waiting," I murmur, leaning into him and deciding against heeding to the ever-present wise voice in my head. He doesn't seem to mind; he's warm. "Waiting for the end to finally be decided..."

I trail off as his fingers slowly make their way up my scalp, feeling, and continuing on to my temple. I can feel my heart quickening and my mind slowing. I would imagine such a sensation would be terrifying, but it really isn't.

"Me too." he murmurs. He has never sounded quite so vulnerable to me. He has never been so exposed. I wonder what I've done to deserve this trust, and how I can do it again.

I want him to speak again. I want to make this last long enough to be with me for the rest of my lifetime, so that it can be bearable after he passes.

But he remains quiet, and I remain immersed in my thoughts of what this display of raw humanity means.

I know I will miss it, when the waiting ends.


End file.
